


first sight (you made me look twice)

by minuted



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, bucky isn't that short, steve is just that tall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 20:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minuted/pseuds/minuted
Summary: “What,” Bucky finally sputters, “the hell.”Hot Guy turns around, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”“You literally - that - abookshelf, you held up a whole fuckingbookshelf, how the hell did you -”Bucky pauses for breath. His thoughts are racing, and Hot Guy, looking far too amused, is not helping. “Who the hell are you?” he manages. In hindsight, some thanks would have been in order, but this guy just supported the whole weight of a bookshelf and Bucky is seriously confused. And also a little turned on, not like that’s relevant.[or; the one where Bucky can’t reach a book and ends up knocking over the whole shelf, and, just his luck, Steve Rogers is there.]





	first sight (you made me look twice)

He isn’t  _that_  short.

And yeah, Bucky  _knows_  that’s something short people always say to try to delude themselves, but he  _really_  isn’t, because five foot eight and a half is a  _perfectly_  respectable height, fuck you very much, Sam.

That being said, there are times he really can’t stand being five foot eight and a half. Like right now. Because in front of him, here in the library of Columbia University, is a textbook he needs to finish his bioengineering essay, dented at the spine and title faded but containing all the information about prostheses he could ever need, and it’s on a shelf five feet fucking  _eleven_  inches high. And he’s been trying to get it for the past fifteen minutes.

Somewhere, he imagines, Sam Wilson is laughing.

He figures that there’s probably a much more rational way to solve this very pressing problem (Find someone? Get something to stand on? Scream in frustration?), but he’s  _Bucky Barnes_ , goddamnit, and he’s very much capable of retrieving a book from a shelf that’s two and a half inches too tall for him.

That’s what he told himself, fifteen minutes ago, but the book is still decidedly  _not_  in his possession.

Reaching up on the tips of his toes for what feels like the thousandth time - he’ll bet there’s a new crease in his Converses, by now - he swipes madly at the book. It evades him, yet again.

“Oh,  _come on_ ,” he mutters - growls, really. The notion of a little creature yanking back the book every time he reaches for it flashes across his sleep-deprived mind, and he snorts.

“Need a hand?”

Though it really isn’t that implausible, Bucky is fairly sure that he didn’t imagine that voice (his mind doesn’t usually sound that deep) and he whirls around.

Nonsensically, the first thing that crosses his mind is,  _of fucking course._

Because he’s spent the past fifteen minutes doing everything he can to get this  _one_  book that’s just  _barely_  too tall for him and he looks like a complete ass doing it and he’s pretty sure he’s been muttering to himself and there’s probably coffee spilled down his front and his hair came out of the low bun he tied it in before he left so he probably seems completely deranged and of course it’s the hottest person he’s ever seen who’s walked in on him. He’s got the build of someone who’s lives in an off-campus gym (and the white t-shirt of someone who tends to shop two sizes too small because  _damn,_  that chest is a work of modern art), eyes that look like a window into an afternoon sky, and hair that, to Bucky’s crazy mind, reminds him of a field of wheat or something cliché like that. Fuck if he knows, but Bucky likes it. A lot.

And he’s smiling.

_Fuck._

The smile looks a little bit more strained, at some point, and it finally occurs to Bucky that he’s essentially been gaping at this stranger for -  _how long has he been gaping at a complete stranger?_

“Um.” he gets out. Sam is having a conniption, wherever he is. “I think I’m good, actually.”

Those blue eyes that Bucky really couldn’t look away from if he tried seem to sparkle with mirth. “You sure about that?”

A part of him, admittedly, is  _screaming_  at him to accept this guy’s help, thank him, and go home with his textbook and maybe the guy’s phone number if he plays his cards right (and that’s  _definitely_ not an unfamiliar game). It’s the smart way out.

But. Bucky is one stubborn son of a bitch - he’s been told so more times than he can count - and he may be kind of short but he’s nothing if not determined and there’s something programmed in him that simply  _will_  not let him take this guy’s offer because  _that’s not what he does._

So instead he shrugs, taking care to keep his gaze level (like he’s  _totally_  not contemplating punching the bookshelf - with his metal arm, no less), and says, “Yeah, I’m sure,” before forcing himself to turn back to that accursed bookshelf. Hot Guy hasn’t moved, and Bucky imagines his gaze following him.

The book is still there. It’s taunting him.

Hot Guy is watching him.

In a last-ditch attempt to  _not_  look like a vertically-challenged lunatic, he leans up on his toes, and swipes at it again. This time, though, he effortlessly grabs it, tucks it under his arm, and flashes Hot Guy a devil-may-care smirk.

At least, in a perfect world, that’s what would have happened.

Instead -  _instead_  - he fucking  _jumps_  on his tiptoes like a petulant five year old. And he jumps  _forward_ , reaching out while throwing his weight wildly in the direction of the book, and instantly regrets every decision he’s ever made in his life that’s taken him to this very moment. The bookshelf is a hardy one, but it cannot withstand the force of Bucky Barnes’s metal arm (a Stark model, no less) shoving it angrily, and as Bucky’s feet reorient themselves on the ground, time seems to halt.

It’s the kind of moment that’d make for a great entry in a photography contest - a tired and disheveled university student, metal hand hanging loosely at his side, gaping in sheer dread and bewilderment as a bookshelf stacked with rows and rows of university-level reading overbalances.

And the moment it’ll finally crash to the ground, Bucky thinks irrationally, would make for a great Vine.

He sees a bright white flash of motion out of the corner of his eye in that split second, and Hot Guy is gone. A good idea, he thinks.

After another millisecond of this, he wonders why nothing’s crashed yet. Stranger yet, the bookshelf seems to be frozen at an angle, shaking furiously but about a yard off the ground. Bucky darts around to figure out what the hell is happening, and is treated to the  _jaw-dropping_ spectacle of Hot Guy supporting the  _entire_  weight of this bookshelf by himself, a knee to the ground and biceps spectacularly on display.

Ideally, Bucky would just marvel at the sight for upwards of an hour, but he’s not  _that_  much of an asshole (he’d say he isn’t  _that_  desperate, but that probably wouldn’t be true), so he wordlessly races over to the far side of the shelf, drops to a knee, and drives his weight forward.

He’ll be the first to say that he isn’t unathletic, but it’s mainly from the effort of Hot Guy that they manage to force the bookshelf back into an upright position, with the only casualties being some books lying on the floor from their efforts and some muscles in Bucky’s back. He’s breathing heavily and leaning on the shelf - probably not a wise move, considering they literally  _just_  set it right - but Hot Guy looks like he hasn’t broken a sweat.

“What,” Bucky finally sputters, “the _hell._ ”

Hot Guy turns around, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“You literally - that - a  _bookshelf_ , you held up a whole fucking  _bookshelf_ , how the  _hell_ did you -”

Bucky pauses for breath. His thoughts are racing, and Hot Guy, looking far too amused, is  _not_  helping. “Who the hell are you?” he manages. In hindsight, some thanks would have been in order, but this guy just supported the whole weight of a bookshelf and Bucky is seriously confused. And also a little turned on, not like that’s relevant.

Hot Guy sticks out his hand, and Bucky’s gaze involuntarily flicks to his biceps before returning to his eyes - Jesus  _Christ_  is he a fucking train wreck right now.

“Steve Rogers,” he says, the name embedding itself into Bucky’s brain permanently. His voice is a bit hoarse, and  _damn_  if that doesn’t do things to Bucky. “Art major. And you are?”

“Bucky Barnes, and - wait, did you say you’re an art major?” The question hangs between them, before Bucky belatedly takes Hot Guy -  _Steve’s_  hand and shakes it.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Mainly studio, but I’m minoring in graphic design, too.”

For a shining moment, Bucky visualizes Steve standing before an easel, face screwed up in concentration as he looks from his canvas to something off in the distance. Not what he’d first expected, but definitely not an unwelcome image.

“Right,” he says, arm returning to his side. “Well, thank God you were here, or I’d probably be getting yelled at by someone, and the librarians here scare the  _shit_  out of me.” It’s a weak attempt at a joke (really, Bucky’s brain feels like it’s been turned to mush by this entire encounter), but Steve rises to it and laughs - a rich, low, ringing sound. He wants to record it, honestly, but that’d frankly be unnerving, so he settles for committing it to memory.

“Are any of them, by any chance, shorter than you?” says Steve, laughter still in his voice.

“Hey, fuck you,” retorts Bucky, “I’m not that short.” Steve, who’s probably well above six foot tall, raises an eyebrow.

“I’m really not! I was the tallest in my grade for eight years! Not all of us get to look like -” he gestures broadly at Steve’s frame “ _that_ , you know.”

Bemused, Steve looks down at himself, almost reflexively, like he has no clue what Bucky’s talking about.

“To be fair,” he says, shrugging sheepishly, “ _that_  only happened the summer before freshman year.”

“Of high school?”

“College.”

Bucky lets out a low whistle. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Steve says, popping the  _p_. “Shortest person in the entire grade twelve years straight, ‘til I got here. I was only supposed to hit five foot four, you know that?”

“Yeah, so what the hell happened?”

Steve looks down at the ground, before back up at Bucky. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” says Bucky, trying - and probably failing - to not sound too enthusiastic.

“Maybe later.” Steve glances around, before a thought seems to strike him. “Wait, what book did you need, anyways?”

Right. The engineering book. He’d forgotten about that. Bucky motions for Steve to follow him, and he turns the corner, hoping that by some miracle the book had fallen to the floor or something.

No such luck. It’s  _still_  two and a half inches too  _fucking_  tall for him. Almost involuntarily, he swipes at it again, and predictably misses.

“Goddamnit.”

“Let me,” says Steve, reaching over effortlessly and plucking it from the shelf. He makes it look so  _damn_  easy, and Bucky would probably glare at him - he’s been told he has a glare that could kill a puppy - if Steve weren’t holding the book out in front of him and smiling bright as the sun. “Here.”

Bucky takes it from him, slowly. The part of him he’d thought he’d abandoned in his sophomore year of high school urges him to brush his fingers against Steve’s hand, to see if his hands are as warm and rough as he imagines, but Bucky settles.

“You know,” Steve says conversationally, glancing around the library, “they really shouldn’t make the shelves that tall.”

It’s true, but Bucky isn’t going to rise to the bait. “Nothing wrong with it.”

Steve looks at him impassively. “Sure.”

It finally hits Bucky that, as much as he wishes it were true, Steve hadn’t come to the library for the sole purpose of watching him try to get a book. “What’d you come for, anyways?”

“Couple’a textbooks, nothing I can’t reach.”

 _That little shit._  “Are you ever going to let that go?” Bucky counters.

“No way in hell.”

No surprise there. “Well, are you going to get them, or are you just going to stand around looking pretty?” The question slips out before he really knows what he’s saying - no one’s had this effect on him in  _years_ , and he’s only known Steve for a grand total of ten minutes.

Thankfully, Steve flushes a little, and it’s absolutely  _adorable_. “Um,” he stutters, “they’re - come on, I’ll show you. If you want.”

It never occurs to Bucky to say no, but he smirks anyways because  _come on_ , he’s gotta do  _something_  to salvage whatever’s left of his dignity. “That’s a hell of an offer, Mr. Rogers,” he says lowly.

“It’s two shelves over.”

“A lot can happen, two shelves over.”

“Fuck’s sake, Barnes.” He turns on his heel, and motions for Bucky to follow him, before heading deliberately over to the art section. As he follows, Bucky takes  _far_  more satisfaction than he should in seeing the bright red blush rising up Steve’s neck.

(He  _definitely_  doesn’t wonder how far down it goes.)

When they get there, Steve browses through the shelves for a few minutes before grabbing a few books on portraiture and Photoshop. Bucky‘s content to watch appreciatively.

“You know,” he says, trying to keep his tone light, “I’ve got a friend who’s majoring in art, he’d probably have some recs for you.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, for sure. I’ll ask him and get back to you.”

“Oh, so you’d need my number for that.” Steve’s tone is amused - he already has Bucky’s number, and they’ve only known each other for fifteen minutes. It’s refreshing, really.

“Well, how else would I tell you?”

Steve plucks one more book in a fluid motion, and flashes Bucky a smirk that makes him - and he isn’t exaggerating here - go weak in the knees. “Oh, I’m sure you can figure out a way.”

And with that, he walks away and vanishes around the corner.

“Rogers, you asshole!” calls out Bucky, indignantly. All he gets for his trouble is a librarian from a nearby aisle shushing at him.

When he leaves the library, book neatly tucked under his arm, he’s still grinning wider than he’d thought possible.

* * *

Finding Steve Rogers’s phone number is much easier than he’d thought, really; Sam knows a guy who’s apparently in the same Graphic Design 101 class as Steve - some guy named Clint - and is more than willing to pass on the information. He also passes on the message “USE PROTECTION!!1!” in all caps, so that’s something.

Once Bucky gets back from his 2 pm lecture, he plugs in the number he’d received from Sam (that had been accompanied by a string of exceptionally dubious emojis that he really doesn’t care to think about).

 **To _roger that_ :** hey heard u wanted art book recs or smth pretentious like that

A few minutes later, grey dots pop up on the bottom of his screen, and his heart rate picks up.

 **From _roger that_ :** hey heard u knocked over a bookshelf or smth dumb like that

 **To _roger that_ :** fuck you

 **From _roger that_ :** at least take me out to dinner first

 **From _roger that_ :** if you can do that without knocking over a table

 **To _roger tha_ t:** 8:30 good enough for you?

 **From _roger that_ :** sounds good, where?

 **To _roger that_ :** i’m sure you’ll figure it out somehow

 **From _roger that_ :** asshole

Bucky grins and fires off a quick text to Clint with an address.

This is going to be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr at [@tvchalla](http://www.tvchalla.tumblr.com) or [@penelopeclearwater](http://www.penelopeclearwater.tumblr.com), and maybe reblog the post [here](https://tvchalla.tumblr.com/post/168348447377/first-sight-you-made-me-look-twice)!
> 
> i'm pretty sure i messed up on the logistics on bucky not being able to reach the shelf but i, a tall person, can't relate


End file.
